


Wind in the Meadow

by Clocketpatch



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocketpatch/pseuds/Clocketpatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rather dark story in which Ace is slowly taken over by the Cheetah virus from Survival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wind in the Meadow

**Author's Note:**

> _If you want something very, very badly, let it go free._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Trigger warnings for dub-con, allusions to self-harm, and general mess-uped-ness

  
_work to do…_

But for him that was just another lie; only the latest in a long chain, and it was made worse — always worse — by the way he posed the manipulations:

He cared.

He cared and he didn’t want her hurt, no matter if he hurt her. He cared and didn’t want her hurt, and if he did hurt her he would lie and pretend it was all okay. They were Ace and the Doctor (Professor) and evil stopped with them. He was Time’s Champion and she was his acolyte and they had work to do.

And he was exactly like her mum. Always goading her on with pretend love and then larking off to do his own thing. And, exactly like her mum, he always came back to reassure her that this new betrayal would be the last betrayal.

Time had passed, and Ace couldn’t measure it. They had work to do meant _he_ had work to do and she…

Whenever they landed, whenever she strode towards those forbidden doors. Whenever (always) he said no. Whenever she would punch the doors and walls and console with frustration until her knuckles split. Whenever (always) he would look at her and say, using his talent for trilling non-existent ‘r’s,

"Ace, you know why. Ace… Ace.”

Repeating her name and using it like a spell. She tried not to listen. He was a trickster with words. He was a trickster with everything. Wizard. Merlin. She'd though she was his acolyte, apprentice, guard against the darkness, friend even, but —

"Ace…"

"I'm just a pet to you, aren't I? At least people let their cats out sometimes."

"Ace…"

Whenever (always) it happened she knew why; it was growling up through her gut and had been since the Cheetah planet. She’d cut her tongue on her too-sharp teeth eating cereal that morning (she’d wanted bacon but he wouldn’t let her have any meat. Hadn’t for weeks. Maybe he thought by not feeding the beast he could starve it out?).

"I just want to see the sky, Professor. Is that too much to ask?"

"The TARDIS has gardens, forests…"

"It's not the same, Professor. You know it."

"Ace…"

He’d been so cheerful pretending nothing was wrong; that things would be the same, but how could things ever be the same? She was sick. She was in quarantine from herself, because she could go outside with him, and save worlds, but lose herself.

And he couldn’t bear that.

Because he wasn’t like her mum.

*

The TARDIS did have forests, gardens, mountains even.

_Run. The wind, the fake rustling wind. Smell it. Metallic. But not bloody. Only machine smells. Run._

_Hills. Grass. Small stones. Dark slopes of thick set pines and then cliffs that rise up to forever. No sun. No clouds. No sky._

_Feel dirt shift under claw, under foot pad. Feel it move. Sliding. Wrong. Tile beneath so far you could dig and never reach it. But smell it. Run._

_Claw the bark. The trees bleed real sap. The air cries out. Growl. The bark is tender. The wood is soft. Claw the bars of your cage. Mark them. Run._

There is no prey in the simulated wilds. Ace hunts, aching for blood. Eventually she claws too many trees. The TARDIS slams those doors shut and will not open them. Ace hunts the corridors then. When she scratches, the white walls are impervious to her nails and she can mark nothing as her own.

*

Time passes, and she can’t measure it. She spends a lot of time pacing, and a lot of time hiding: behaving like any captive animal with a need to be free.

“I hate you,” she says, meaning/not meaning it.

He says nothing.

Time passes.

She avoids him in the halls. His eyes are dark, but hers are growing into slits. He tries to keep her away from danger and injustice, from anything that might tempt her to fight, but she is Ace, and the fight is inside.

“I hate you,” she says to the mirror.

Her refection says nothing back.

The Doctor explained to her once how the ship is alive. How the TARDIS loves her passengers and tries, always, to keep them safe. Ace didn't doubt the ship's sentience — you'd have to be willfully stupid not to notice her voice tickling in the back of your skull — but she never realized how willing the TARDIS could be to interfere until her razor disappears from her dresser. The Doctor (she never calls him Professor now, the game is gone; they aren’t friends anymore for playful banter) might have come into her room, but she doubts it.

“I hate you!” she screams to the living walls and _they_ answer, rumbling back to her an emotion that isn’t love, or hate, or pity, and so Ace can’t classify it.

She finds fur growing on her arm later, and runs to the shower to shave it off, only realising once she gets there that her razor is gone. Except it is there, slick and red next to a bar of soap. She grabs it and brings it to her arm, except the fur has disappeared in the interim, hiding like the symptoms of the most deadly diseases always do.

Later she lies on her bed, crying as she feels herself burning away inside. She does love the Doctor. Loves him. Hates him. The emotions are too muddled together, bundled up into one big blob of something that cramps her insides. She feels her claws extend and retreat into nails.

She doesn’t want to hurt him.

*

“Ace…”

A low murmur, covered anger, covered fear, and most of all, masked concern. She buries her face in her pillow as he touches her wrist above where the blood has dried.

“Why, Ace? The virus is feeding off your depression and anxiety. It is using you, but you’re so much stronger than it. You can shake it off, you can — ”

She lashes out. Surprised, shocked by the claws which rent his pull-over but don’t go far enough to tear flesh.

He jumps back. Surprised as well. Afraid? Afraid of her?

She is afraid of herself.

She balls herself back up on her bed, clutching at torn, stained sheets. “Go away,” she says.

“Ace…” helpless, unsure.

But he does leave.

*

She is in control. Her fangs rest sharply against her lips and that is right. She sees keenly even in this pitch-black room and that is right. She feels him quivering beneath her. The scent coming off him is so very beautiful:

Fear, such fear. Mostly for her. Foolish, compassionate Time Lord. But beneath that fool fear there is real fear, fear for what she might do to him. Fear deeper than that. Fear she doesn't understand and ignores:

Fear of what he must do.

*

Ace wakes in her room. She craves pancakes with syrup. Specifically, she craves pancakes made from boxed mix with cheap off-brand corn syrup. The Sunday breakfast of her youth before her mum got too distracted to make even that pretense at cooking. Ace rises from her bed and stretches. She feels sore in strange places, but she's been feeling many strange things lately and it doesn't concern her over much.

She's wearing a pale blue nightie, which is odd since she distinctly remembers going to bed in her clothes, but this doesn't concern her much either. Her mind hasn't been her own lately, and besides, if the TARDIS can move about her possessions when she's not looking who's to say that the ship can't change her outfit while she sleeps? Normally that kind of maternal display would annoy Ace, but she's pleasantly muzzy and the only thoughts she can really focus on revolve around pancakes.

She pads out of her bedroom to the kitchen. Her breakfast of choice is already laid out on the table. Ace eats. She uses a fork and knife. She drinks milky tea with five sugars, savouring the crunch of the undissolved grains between her teeth as she sips.

It's been a long time since she's had a meal like this. It's been a long time since she's wanted to eat anything but meat or drink anything but blood.

After, with her stomach warm and full, Ace retreats back to her bedroom. She lies luxuriously under the sheets and purrs.

*

Her paws knead into flesh, up-down, claws in-out. His eyes are wide and his nostrils flared. Ace purrs.

He has tried to talk to her. He has tried to mesmerize her. He has tried to control her, but it doesn't work. She is a cat, and there are no words yet invented which can sway her from her desires. She is only the sum of her desires.

He has tried to escape. He has tried to slip away quietly. He has tried to run. She lets him, but only because the chase is so enjoyable. He is easily caught when she wants him back. Running after him, muscles shifting, powerful, air pumping strong in and out of her lungs. When she catches him, she will tear him and feel warm blood on her chin. Then, she will free him. Let him run again. Fun.

Run, little man. Run.

The ship interferes and slams doors and walls across her path, keeps her from catching her prey again. Ace snarls and paces.

Run, little man. Run. Hide.

But she is patient. She can wait.

*

Ace wanders the TARDIS. The smooth white floor feels alien to her bare feet. She longs for earth, for dark soil that she can dig into and roll in. She searches for the gardens and hillsides, but they elude her. There's a reason for that, she knows, but she can't quite remember it. She pushes open a door which she is sure leads to the TARDIS conservatory, but instead finds herself in the library.

There is a study desk near the door with one book on it. It is a thin, red paper back with no title. The binding is worn away leaving long pink and white creases down the spine. Ace picks the book up and reads out loud from the page it falls to:

"Tyger, Tyger, burning bright — "

Ace knows that the poem isn't about a real tiger. She paid attention in school, despite what her teachers might've thought. It's a metaphor for the industrial revolution, for an unstoppable change sweeping a nation and destroying an old way of life. Fires and forges are burning and churning and the cost is death and misery, but the goal is —

_Life is running. Running. Sweet freedom from all work and cares and memory. No more toil or fear. No more pain or duty. Only the chase. Blood rushing in your veins. And the taste of it in your mouth. The taste of blood in your mouth. The taste of freedom in your mouth._

Ace sets the book back on the desk and stalks out of the library. She doesn't find the greenhouse. She raids the kitchen; today she craves meat again. It vaguely occurs to her that she hasn't seen the Doctor for days.

*

Found you, little man. Going to eat you up.

"Ace, please, this isn't you."

I have my claws sheathed, but I can still bat you back and forth.

"Ace…"

Teeth on skin. Pick you up. Shake. Bat. Claws now.

"Ace…"

Don't know what ace is. Like it when the little man squeaks.

*

Ace finds her way to the console room. She feels normal. She looks at the doors to the outside world, lays her hands, her cheek against them and tries to remember how long it's been since she's gone outside. She doesn't know. She misses that life.

She hears movement behind her. Footsteps. Breathing. Blood in veins. Her ears twitch and track the prey as it comes up behind her. Curious, foolish, sniffing prey. She wants to turn and bite off its head, but instead she stays with her cheek pressed against the door.

_Wait. Soft. Quiet. Ambush. Kill._

"Ace…"

She looks at him through a veil of dirty hair. She's been fastidious about washing, but cat methods only work on cat bodies. She hasn't showered for weeks.

"Professor, I —"

She doesn't know what to say. All of the words are choking up in her throat.

_Wait. Soft. Quiet. Ambush. Kill. The taste of freedom in your mouth._

They haven't talked for so long now. She hopes that they don't fight. She doesn't want to fight anymore. He looks small, standing there across the room with the console between them. He is clean. His clothing is unstained, untorn. There are no bruises or streaks of blood or dirt on his face.

Why would there be blood on his face?

_The taste of freedom. Beyond those doors. Running forever. Wait. Soft. Quiet. Ambush. Kill. Bite him. Bite him now._

Her muscles are tense and prickling. Gooseflesh covers her. She is ready, but she'd not sure what she's ready for.

"It's not going to stop, is it, Professor?" Ace asks.

He looks at her. Baleful eyes. Dark eyes. Trickster wizard eyes. He's been the circus ringmaster, trying to tame the tiger, but the tiger won't be tamed and now —

"Ace…"

"Why do you keep doing that? Just saying my name, over and over and over and never answering my questions, Professor." Her nose feels stuffed. Her eyes are sore. She rubs them with her wrist and her wrist comes away damp with tears and snot. "Am I going to die, Professor?"

She takes a step towards him. He takes a step away. She goes forward; he goes back. They could dance around the console like this, but she stops before that can happen.

"Do you hate me?" she asks.

"No. Ace…"

She turns away from him. If she looks at him, all she can see is meat, prey, blood, chase… When she looks away, she still hears his two hearts, too many hearts, beating too loud, and all that breathing and living. Why won't he be quiet? Does he want her to pounce and then rend and then —

She grinds her face into the door. Twists her hands into fists and sobs.

"One of us is going to die, Professor, and I know that it won't be you. Because if you're my friend, if you've ever been my friend, you won't let me do that. Please, Professor, don't let me do that. At least you, you'll know why. I won't know why. I won't be me anymore. But you, you'll go on, and you'll find someone else to travel with. You'll have adventures, have tea with the Brigadier, visit Mel and Glitz, and you'll remember me like I was. Like Ace."

She can feel him. Creeping around the console, cautiously coming closer. Her chest is heaving. Stay away. Stay away. All of that blood and flesh and _can't you taste it? The wind on your face as you run, as you howl, and the taste of his blood in your mouth…_

His hand is on her shoulder then.

"You might not always be Ace," he says. "Someday, you may be Dorothy again. Someday, you may be a mother. Someday, a warrior. Some other day, a cat. A hero, a traitor, a student, a waitress, a delinquent, a lady, an enemy, a friend. You're many different people, Ace, right now and always."

"The cat wants to kill those people. The cat wants to kill you."

That hand. On her shoulder. The pulse in its fingers. The pulse in her neck.

Her mind blurs. She thinks of running through long grass, the ground soft beneath her feet. Is she human? Is she cat? Is she Ace?

She thinks of the wind. It sweeps around and around and around the long grass looking for escape. The wind is a prisoner of the meadow. It carries the scent of prey and scat and dry grass and fire and rain. She can smell the wind but she cannot hold it. She can feel the wind in her hair, on her back, tickling the fur on her sides, but she cannot control it. She can breathe deeply, and take the wind into herself, but even when they are one they will never fully understand each other.

Those smells: prey running scared, grass rustling, smoke on the horizon, ash in her mouth, lightening blaze, black clouds rising up, water driving down and the smell of rain hitting dust; a storm to save the tiny, insignificant creatures who keep the wind trapped in their meadow.

She understands those smells, but they are not the wind. They are only where the wind has been.

She howls and finds herself back in the console room. She's curled herself up against the wall: arms around knees, knees against eyes, shoulders against ears. He's crouching in front of her and she can smell blood, real blood, blood on the wind, blood in her mouth. All she can remember is running through a field.

"I want to kill you, Professor. I don't want to hurt you, but I want to rip you apart. The cat wants to taste your blood in its mouth and then it won't matter if Ace might be all those other people one day, it won't matter who I was before or who I am now. The cat will kill all of it, Professor."

She peels her face up to confront him. There are slash mark across his jumper. There is a bruise on his cheek. He lays his hand over her linked fingers. His hand is covered with blood.

"I searched for you, Ace," he says. "I looked for you, out there in the world. I visited monasteries, and hospitals, and libraries. I spoke with magicians, jinnis, lion-tamers and priests. I said your name over, and over, hoping I could call you home."

He kisses her hands. He stands up. He walks to the console. She stays on the floor, curved in on herself, following him with her eyes. Is she Ace? Is she human? Is she cat?

Tomorrow, will she want to eat meat or pancakes? Tomorrow, will the Doctor go on another quest to try and save her? Or will she chase him through the corridors? Will she kill him? Will he kill her?

He stands by the lever which works the doors. He presses it and suddenly there is sky and grass and the scent of real prey.

"I thought I could keep you in here and I would find a cure," he says, "but there is nothing to be cured. You are Ace and you are cat and you need to run."

She hears him faintly as she runs out the door, chasing after the beckoning hunt. The wind in her ears, the wind at her back, and the taste of sorrow in her mouth.

"Come back to me, Ace. When you're done running, come back…"

She knows that she will.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=50617>


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